Watering the Garden: Teresa of Avila's View of Prayer
By Gerald May
St. Teresa was 47 when she finished her first detailed description of prayer, contained in Chapters 11-20 of the book of her Life. Although this portrayal is less precise than she would give fifteen years later in the Interior Castle, it is simpler and better known. I want to share my sense of it here.
In the book of her Life, Teresa likens the human soul to a garden. She says it is natural for us to want this garden to be a delight for God who dwells there. Our role in tending our soul-garden is to water it, and the water is prayer. Significantly, Teresa says there is no need for concern about planting seeds of goodness and beauty, because God has already done that within us. Nor do we need to pull weeds; God takes care of that, too, "and places good plants in their stead." This is especially important for beginners in meditation, for whom distractions seem like troublesome weeds. To quote Teresa, "one must never be depressed or afflicted because of unrest or distraction of the mind."
Our task is simply to water the garden through the intimate attentiveness of prayer. Although simple, this is by no means always easy. Teresa describes four ways the garden can be watered. First,
we can draw water from a well and carry it to the garden in buckets, "which is for us a lot of work." Here Teresa is describing meditation, the kind of prayer or reflection that takes an effort of will on our part. Sometimes this is very hard work, because "we are accustomed to living a life of distractions." I would rephrase it thus: we are accustomed to living a life of willfulness in which we feel compelled to concentrate on one thing at a time. Only by grace and experience can we ease this concentration and simply be present-to-what-is. In the absence of concentration, there are no distractions.
Teresa says the period of meditation can last a long time-"many years" for Teresa herself-but not for everyone. She mentions a woman for whom it lasted only three days, and concludes, "there are some
exceptions." Sooner or later though, one finds it impossible to continue effortful meditation. Prayer that used to be consoling now becomes empty and arid, and one often feels one has gone astray.
These hardships-later described by John of the Cross as part of the Dark Night of the Soul-mark the beginning of the transition to contemplative prayer. The soul has exhausted what it can do with its
own willpower.
Then comes the second means of watering, "by means of a water wheel and aqueduct," which "involves less workand you get more water." This is the prayer of quiet, the beginning of contemplation. Here
the person's will is quiet, absorbed in God's overflowing grace. The will can no longer control the other potencias-memory, intellect, imagination and so on-which therefore become freer and more
spontaneous. I would say that as the driving intention of the will lessens, attention becomes freer to respond to the heart's desires and the needs of situations at hand. There is great consolation in
this but also confusion. People may still feel a habitual need to be accomplishing something, but in the absence of willfulness they lack initiative and feel lazy or irresponsible. Teresa's advice is "merely to go softly and make no noise." Again, she encourages simple prayer: "Lord, what can I do here?"
With continuing attentiveness in prayer, God leads the person into the third way of watering the soul-garden. Here Teresa's image is of water flowing from a nearby spring or stream: "an even better way,
because the ground is more fully soaked and it is much less work." She calls this deeper contemplation the sleep of the faculties. Although none of these potencias are actually lost, they are now
united with the will in being occupied with God. She says none of them "ventures to stir, nor can we cause any of them to move except by trying to fix our attention very carefully on something else, and
even then I do not think we could entirely succeed in doing so." The confusion about willful accomplishment now finally disappears, and activity in the world happens naturally, spontaneously, and without interior distress. "This state," she says, "is a glorious folly, a heavenly madness, in which true Wisdom is acquired." The flowers in the garden are now blooming; the fragrance is delightful; the trees
bear delicious fruit. "It is well," Teresa says at this point, "for the soul to abandon itself completely into the arms of God."
Finally, in the fourth way of watering, rain falls. Teresa says, "God does all the watering this way is incomparably better than all the others." This is the prayer of union, and she understandably has difficulty describing it. My favorite quotation from Teresa comes from her futile attempt: "The will must be fully occupied in loving, but it cannot understand how it loves; the understanding, if it understands, does not understand how it understands, or at least can comprehend nothing of what it
understands. It does not seem to me to be understanding, because, as I say, it does not understand itself. Nor can I myself understand this."
Teresa says the prayer of union is a temporary experience: "if it were to last for half an hour, that would be a long time-I do not think it has ever lasted that long with me." In union, all the
capacities of the soul seem completely undone. They "are suspended in such a way that it is impossible to believe they are active." The impact is not in the experience itself but in the effect it has on
the person. Teresa describes the effect as profound certitude, confidence, and courage in intimacy with God-an empowerment to live fully, boldly, with immense creativity and love: precisely the way
Teresa herself lived the last twenty years of her life.
Our role in tending our soul-garden is to water it, and the water is prayer.
By Gerald May
St. Teresa was 47 when she finished her first detailed description of prayer, contained in Chapters 11-20 of the book of her Life. Although this portrayal is less precise than she would give fifteen years later in the Interior Castle, it is simpler and better known. I want to share my sense of it here.
In the book of her Life, Teresa likens the human soul to a garden. She says it is natural for us to want this garden to be a delight for God who dwells there. Our role in tending our soul-garden is to water it, and the water is prayer. Significantly, Teresa says there is no need for concern about planting seeds of goodness and beauty, because God has already done that within us. Nor do we need to pull weeds; God takes care of that, too, "and places good plants in their stead." This is especially important for beginners in meditation, for whom distractions seem like troublesome weeds. To quote Teresa, "one must never be depressed or afflicted because of unrest or distraction of the mind."
Our task is simply to water the garden through the intimate attentiveness of prayer. Although simple, this is by no means always easy. Teresa describes four ways the garden can be watered. First,
we can draw water from a well and carry it to the garden in buckets, "which is for us a lot of work." Here Teresa is describing meditation, the kind of prayer or reflection that takes an effort of will on our part. Sometimes this is very hard work, because "we are accustomed to living a life of distractions." I would rephrase it thus: we are accustomed to living a life of willfulness in which we feel compelled to concentrate on one thing at a time. Only by grace and experience can we ease this concentration and simply be present-to-what-is. In the absence of concentration, there are no distractions.
Teresa says the period of meditation can last a long time-"many years" for Teresa herself-but not for everyone. She mentions a woman for whom it lasted only three days, and concludes, "there are some
exceptions." Sooner or later though, one finds it impossible to continue effortful meditation. Prayer that used to be consoling now becomes empty and arid, and one often feels one has gone astray.
These hardships-later described by John of the Cross as part of the Dark Night of the Soul-mark the beginning of the transition to contemplative prayer. The soul has exhausted what it can do with its
own willpower.
Then comes the second means of watering, "by means of a water wheel and aqueduct," which "involves less workand you get more water." This is the prayer of quiet, the beginning of contemplation. Here
the person's will is quiet, absorbed in God's overflowing grace. The will can no longer control the other potencias-memory, intellect, imagination and so on-which therefore become freer and more
spontaneous. I would say that as the driving intention of the will lessens, attention becomes freer to respond to the heart's desires and the needs of situations at hand. There is great consolation in
this but also confusion. People may still feel a habitual need to be accomplishing something, but in the absence of willfulness they lack initiative and feel lazy or irresponsible. Teresa's advice is "merely to go softly and make no noise." Again, she encourages simple prayer: "Lord, what can I do here?"
With continuing attentiveness in prayer, God leads the person into the third way of watering the soul-garden. Here Teresa's image is of water flowing from a nearby spring or stream: "an even better way,
because the ground is more fully soaked and it is much less work." She calls this deeper contemplation the sleep of the faculties. Although none of these potencias are actually lost, they are now
united with the will in being occupied with God. She says none of them "ventures to stir, nor can we cause any of them to move except by trying to fix our attention very carefully on something else, and
even then I do not think we could entirely succeed in doing so." The confusion about willful accomplishment now finally disappears, and activity in the world happens naturally, spontaneously, and without interior distress. "This state," she says, "is a glorious folly, a heavenly madness, in which true Wisdom is acquired." The flowers in the garden are now blooming; the fragrance is delightful; the trees
bear delicious fruit. "It is well," Teresa says at this point, "for the soul to abandon itself completely into the arms of God."
Finally, in the fourth way of watering, rain falls. Teresa says, "God does all the watering this way is incomparably better than all the others." This is the prayer of union, and she understandably has difficulty describing it. My favorite quotation from Teresa comes from her futile attempt: "The will must be fully occupied in loving, but it cannot understand how it loves; the understanding, if it understands, does not understand how it understands, or at least can comprehend nothing of what it
understands. It does not seem to me to be understanding, because, as I say, it does not understand itself. Nor can I myself understand this."
Teresa says the prayer of union is a temporary experience: "if it were to last for half an hour, that would be a long time-I do not think it has ever lasted that long with me." In union, all the
capacities of the soul seem completely undone. They "are suspended in such a way that it is impossible to believe they are active." The impact is not in the experience itself but in the effect it has on
the person. Teresa describes the effect as profound certitude, confidence, and courage in intimacy with God-an empowerment to live fully, boldly, with immense creativity and love: precisely the way
Teresa herself lived the last twenty years of her life.
Our role in tending our soul-garden is to water it, and the water is prayer.